


i don't care for sand and lighting

by orphan_account



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:04:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4173999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>trevor looks good on the dance floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i don't care for sand and lighting

**Author's Note:**

> this is a rewrite of one of the first fics i wrote for this fandom way back in the day on the gta v kink meme. you can find the original [here](http://gtakink.livejournal.com/1164.html?thread=4748#t4748), if you're so inclined. my revisions have left this fic much harsher than it was originally, but i think it suits the characters better.

It’s one of those nice, mild North Yankton summers—the kind where it stays around sixty-five after dark and still feels free and wild. There’s a faint breeze that carries the sounds of stupid teenagers having a good time all over Michael’s tiny hometown, too, the kind that Michael knows inside and out because all high school parties are the same, when it comes down to it. It’s the kind of thing ex-quarterbacks do all the time when they go places like this. Hometowns where they used to keep court and play god. Memories are a trap. They suck you in and don’t let you go. 

He and Trevor aren’t stopping for long; they have to leave in two days to pick up Lester and connect with their contact for their next job the day after. But tonight is their night off, and Michael is twenty-three and dumb, and on the road with a twenty year old who’s even dumber, and the bass and the chatter and the smell of shitty booze is like a siren song to them when they pass by an old farm house filled with rowdy locals. 

They’re only here because Michael’s deadbeat no good piece of shit father is dead and his sister wanted him to come back for the funeral (and Michael hadn’t wanted to come back--the old man could rot in hell, but his mother was crying and he couldn’t just leave her) and he’s ready to get wasted. Madonna is blaring and there are girls everywhere and it’s easy for him to fall back into that wide stance, the easy smile that got him through high school as a star. No one questions him. 

They slip through the door without ceremony and Michael stops to survey the mood of the room, but Trevor breezes past him with coke fueled confidence into the thicket of bodies, swallowed up by the press of flesh and swept out of Michael’s sight. He thinks distantly that they should probably stay together, but a pretty redhead is touching his arm and offering him a styrofoam cup full of something brown and awful and he lets himself enjoy the sticky, acrid burn of the night. 

A few pretty girls ask him to dance or bring him drinks, and he entertains himself that way for a while. Eventually, a leggy blonde with a great tan and shorts that should be illegal glues herself to his side, her hand under his shirt and stroking his back, her soft voice lost in the press of louder people. They stand on the edge of the room for a while and Michael sips his warm, shitty beer.

He scans the room out of habit, shocked that they’ve been here this long without Trevor starting a full scale riot, while the blonde runs her nails over his arm and chatters about people he doesn’t know. He finds him after a moment, across the room and sandwiched between two strangers. They’re dancing together, Trevor facing a girl with a shock of blue hair and several piercings, but his head is resting back on the shoulder of a tall, thin boy in a torn up Motorhead t-shirt with black nails who’s grinding into him.

Time feels strange, suddenly. It stutters and stops, and Michael floats out of his body. He can see the cameras, the director, craft services. In the Michael Townley Movie, this is the scene where he catches the eye of the leading lady from across the room. This is where she flicks her hair and senses that he’s watching, so she glances up with long, sweeping lashes that frame big blue eyes and smiles at him from the arms of another man. This is the beginning of the arc where he swears he loves her, he wants to marry her, and she laughs light and sweet and says it’s just flirting, it’s all innocent, but she slowly falls in love with him all the same.

But this isn’t his movie. And that isn’t his leading lady--that’s Trevor. It’s Trevor who feels his stare and looks up and smiles, and it’s Trevor who laughs like a bell ringing when the boy leans down to whisper something in his ear, and it’s Trevor who moves with such light, rolling grace that Michael feels dizzy just watching. 

He might throw up. He feels something like a wave rack his whole body, and he moves forward. He shakes off the strange girl. He passes through the crowd that parts like water for his fury, stalking towards Trevor who he knows is only pretending to be oblivious as he nears. 

The girl catches on first, stepping back from Trevor just as Michael gets within arm’s reach, but the boy is dumber. Trevor smirks lazily even as Michael grips his forearm hard enough to bruise, growling that they have to _go_ while the strange goth boy yells an annoyed “what the fuck, man” after them. 

Trevor lets Michael drag him outside before he wrenches out of his grasp and turns around, but Michael is fast. He snatches at the back of Trevor’s shirt, but Trevor uses the momentum to swing around and slam into him, teeth bared and ready for a fight.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, M?” He hisses, eyes wild. Michael feels the comfortable, familiar burn of anger in his stomach. This is good. This is normal.

“You’re a fucking idiot, T, and you goddamn know it.” He snaps back, yanking Trevor’s shirt for emphasis. “You can’t fucking cause trouble around here. We don’t need people paying attention to us, you dumbass.” 

“You’re not my fucking _mother_ , Michael.” Trevor’s voice is rising, which is the last thing they need. They’ve already caused a scene, and Michael wants to get them the fuck out of here. He shoves Trevor towards their car, pushing him inside even as he rages at Michael for his injustice, for his petty bullshit, for whatever he can think of. 

Michael lets him, fuming the entire ride back to their shitty motel on the edge of town. Trevor is still screaming at him as they get out of the car, and as they walk up the stairs, and as they open their door. Finally, Michael is fucking done.

“You can’t just barge in and try to fuck a local in the middle of a fucking party, Trevor, Jesus! You’re such a goddamn animal sometimes!” Michael says, slamming the door behind him. Trevor wheels around, hair flying like a medieval banshee, his voice somehow even louder. Trevor is gaining on him, backing Michael up until he’s pressed against the flimsy plywood door. 

“Oh, so that’s what this is about, huh, Mikey?” He screeches. Michael opens his mouth and finds that he’s forgotten what he was going to say. His mouth feels dry. He swallows. “This is about me _fraternizing_ with the locals? Then why is it that I fuck strippers and when I fuck whores, and you don’t give a single shit,” And Trevor is closing in, coming closer and closer while the small of Michael’s back digs into the doorknob. “But one pretty boy from town wants to jerk me off at a party and you lose it?”

Michael’s eyes flutter shut. Trevor is close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off of him. He doesn’t want to look at him. He doesn’t want to see hazel eyes and a strong jaw and the way his throat works when he swallows and Jesus, he can feel his breath on him.

“Cut the shit, Michael.” Trevor snarls. Michael can’t breathe.

“I don’t--I--” He tries, but it sounds pitifully weak even to his own ears. 

“Tell me the truth. Tell me that you want me so bad you can’t stand the thought of that stupid little boy’s hands on me.” And Michael really doesn’t know what he’s talking about, honestly, and he opens his eyes and then his mouth to tell Trevor he’s got it all wrong, he isn’t _like that_ \--

Trevor’s hand shoots out and Michael isn’t expecting him to grab his cock, and holy shit, all he can do is drop his head forward and stutter out a pathetic “Oh, Jesus.” and buck forward into Trevor’s hand. Trevor is pressing against him fully, now, and his breath is coming hot and fast against Michael’s ear. He chuckles softly, knowingly, like there’s never been any doubt in his mind that it would come to this.

“Will it make you feel better,” Trevor murmurs, sarcasm burning the words in Michael’s eardrum, “if I tell you that I’m always thinking of you when they fuck me?” With the last word, Trevor brushes his fingernails over the denim between them, and something in Michael snaps.

Michael shoves him back and Trevor has the grace to look startled, stumbling and catching himself on the bed. Michael growls and stalks towards him, body lowered like he’s hunting an enemy, approaching Trevor with murder in his face. Trevor, of course, seems unafraid, grinning broadly at Michael even as he reaches out to grab his shirt. Instead, Trevor snatches Michael’s wrist and takes advantage of his surprise to bring his open hand to his lips, sucking two of Michael’s fingers into the burning heat of his slick mouth.

Michael fights a groan. He wrenches his hand from Trevor’s lips with a frustrated grunt, instead going to remove his belt. Trevor’s fingers follow his and help to push his worn jeans around his ankles, and then his boxers. Trevor glances up at him, a smirk playing over his features, but Michael is all out of patience. 

He grabs a fistful of Trevor’s hair and pushes him forwards. Trevor is a bright boy, though, sucking and licking and slurping with all the obscene skill of a seasoned porn star. He keeps his eyes up, gold burning into blue, framed by thick, dark lashes and flushed cheeks and Michael almost thinks Trevor is maybe something close to beautiful, but it’s so dangerous that he pushes the thought away. 

Instead, he starts to thrust into Trevor’s mouth, choking him and leaving him sputtering, his throat contracting perfectly around the tip of Michael’s cock. Michael is harsh with him, yanking his hair so Trevor keeps his watering eyes flicked up at him, drool dripping down his chin as he lets Michael ravage his mouth.

“Is this what you wanted?” Michael asks, thrusting hard and deep to punctuate his point. Trevor gags. “Is it?” He almost shouts, suddenly pulling Trevor backwards and off of him, throwing him down onto the mattress. Trevor wipes his lips, breathing hard. 

“It’s exactly what I wanted.” He says, still wearing that fucking smirk that makes Michael want to pop him one good. Michael falls on top of him, yanking his own shirt off and following it with Trevor’s, batting his hands away when Trevor tries to speed the process. 

“Lube.” Trevor grits out, arching into Michael’s weight. “In my bag.” He says. Michael gets up but ignores the instruction, instead going for his own (far cleaner) supply in his own pack. He turns back, prize in hand, but stops just short of the bed. 

“Uh.” He says. Trevor snorts.

“Duuuhhh.” He mirrors, lolling his tongue out briefly to mock Michael’s confusion. Michael stays still. Trevor’s pants are gone, now, and Michael is facing the reality of what he’s about to do. Disgust and filthy, illicit pleasure zip down his spine in tandem. 

“Just give it to me.” Trevor snaps, his hand extending to take the bottle from Michael. He pops it open and slathers it on his fingers, and for a moment Michael isn’t sure what he’s going to do next. 

And then Trevor spreads his legs and sinks two fingers into himself and Michael moans in time with him, blown away by the sight. Trevor is split open on the bed, toes curling, eyes hooded, hair a mess of brown all around him like some twisted, thorny halo. He looks, in other words, absolutely fuckable. 

Michael inhales raggedly. Trevor grins, all of his teeth bared and alluring as he plunges another finger inside of himself (surely that’s too quick, Michael thinks, but Trevor is a masochist at his core). He can see Trevor’s fingers spread and scissor inside of himself, drawing a tiny moan from both of them when Trevor’s dick twitches visibly against his stomach. Michael groans again, fisting his cock eagerly while Trevor arches and performs for him, thighs open and taught, his moans quickly turning to broken whimpering when he sees what Michael is doing.

“Please, oh, good God, Michael, please get over here, please fuck me.” he gasps, and Michael has never been one to say no to a request like that. He surges forward and they collide, slick and sweating, sliding together with as much ease as if they’d been doing this together for years. Michael lifts his hips and Trevor grips his cock and guides him inside, and suddenly eye contact is far too intimate. 

Trevor’s nails dig into the back of his neck, sliding up and winding in his hair to pull him down so that Trevor’s mouth is pressed against his ear. Michael angles his hips and thrusts hard enough to scoot them both up the bed, already creaking under their weight pathetically. Trevor is meeting him thrust-for-thrust, panting and crying out so loudly that Michael can feel the rumble in Trevor’s chest as it passes through his skin and into his. Trevor’s eyes snap open suddenly, and Michael isn’t sure that he’s really the one in charge here.

“Is it tight?” Trevor pants, and Michael hardly processes the words before Trevor is growling and repeating himself, frustrated by Michael’s lack of response. “Is my pussy tight, Michael?” He demands, and Michael’s hips stutter because holy shit, it’s nonsensical and strange but it’s so erotic that Michael feels like he was punched in the stomach with it. 

He swears, dropping to his elbows to bite Trevor’s mouth, but Trevor turns his face so Michael catches his jaw instead. He wants Trevor to bleed, to bruise, to look ravished and demolished and _ruined_ when he’s done with him. 

“Fuck, Michael, oh my God, your cock is so big, holy _fuck_.” Trevor gasps, and Michael wants to curse him for knowing him so well, for knowing exactly what stupid, generic shit to say to stroke his ego, and worse, he wants to curse him because it works. Instead, he settles for slinging Trevor’s leg over his shoulder and driving into him as deep as he can go, satisfied by the slick, grotesque slapping sounds their skin makes as it connects. Trevor is undeterred. 

“Rip my pussy open.” He groans, still meeting Michael’s every movement with ease, his cock thick and hard between them, leaking small beads that smear over both of their stomachs. “All I’m good for is taking your cock, Michael. Make me fucking bleed.” Trevor finally turns his head to look Michael in the eye, his mouth falling open and his fingers scrambling for purchase against his sweat-slick skin. 

“This” Michael punctuates with a thrust of his hips “is mine now. Do you understand?” he asks. Trevor nods silently. Michael snarls. “I said ‘do you understand me’?” He snaps his hips hard enough to bruise them both. Trevor pants and groans for a moment, looking for his composure. 

“Yes, yes, Michael, it’s yours, I’m yours, all yours.” He says, voice high and uneven with desire. Michael roars like a baited bear and doubles his already relentless pace, chasing his pleasure down with snorts and snarls more fitting for minotaurs than humans. Trevor holds onto him for dear life and rides out the storm, thighs tight around Michael’s hips and fingers digging into his skin deep enough to draw blood. 

“Please, please, please Michael, oh God, I wanna come, I’m so--I’m so--please, please--” Michael slaps his hand over Trevor’s mouth, tired of his babbling. 

“Shut up, you disgusting slut.” He means it to be cruel, but it must have been exactly what trevor needed, because Trevor is arching into him and his eyes are rolling back and warm, thick ribbons of come are coating them both. Michael isn’t far behind. He removes his hand from Trevor’s mouth, but Trevor stays silent and slack from his orgasm, letting Michael hold his hips still and piston into him, until finally Michael swears and punches the bed, his release flooding Trevor’s insides. 

Michael rolls off of him and falls to the mattress with a dull thump, breathless and tired. And if Trevor says anything before Michael falls asleep, he doesn’t know it.


End file.
